


Zen

by silentdescant



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Mental Breakdown, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 05:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5322860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They take their mental breakdowns in turns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zen

**Author's Note:**

> First time watching TWD. I'm about at season 4 and I needed to get some Daryl feelings out. The timeline isn't right, but I wanted this set at the prison and I don't know the new characters well enough yet.

Rick has a mental breakdown every other goddamn day, sometimes more often than that. He's pretty much constantly having a mental breakdown. The others, though, they go through stages, like they all synced their calendars or some shit. The old man's the quietest about it, hides himself away so his girls won't see him cry. He keeps it together pretty well most of the time, though. Maggie and Glenn are always high strung about each other, worried and self-sacrificing and all the crap that goes with young love. Carol, well, she spent most of the first six months quietly freaking out about one thing or another, but now she's like Hershel, every so often slips away to have a little cry in private. Carl's worryingly zen, as is Beth, surprisingly. It must have something to do with how young they are. It's probably a sign they're going to grow up more fucked in the head than the adults are now.

Daryl's the only one of the group with any fucking chill, and it's so tiring. Exhausting, really, to be the only one keeping his shit together. Daryl gets his rest out in the wilderness, hunting down dinner. He crouches with his back against a tree, waiting, silently, for something meal-sized to cross his path.

After a while, he puts down his bow, giving no thought to the crunching of dead leaves, and rubs his face with both hands. He hasn't cried since Merle, a few months back. He wonders sometimes if he's even capable of it anymore. Like that was the last big tragedy of his life, and everything else will roll right off him like water and oil. He'd be sad if one of the group got bit or attacked--Christ, that doesn't even bear thinkin' about, it's so upsetting--but Daryl doesn't feel the threat of tears behind his eyes. He yanks on his hair a little bit, relishing the sharp pinpricks of pain, but they don't quite feel the same.

He wants to cry, he realilzes. Daryl wants to know he's not dead inside, the way Carl sometimes seems, the way that scares Rick into hallucinations and panic attacks.

A buck plods into the clearing, munching on plants and not paying any attention to Daryl. He slowly reaches for his bow. This thing's more than enough for dinner, for all of them, for a few days maybe. The leaves rustle and Daryl winces, but the buck just looks up and stares at him, still chewing away. After a silent moment in which it considers him not a threat, it resumes nibbling at the grass. Daryl hefts the bow and aims for the head, right between the antlers.

Daryl breathes. Once out, once in, another time out. He squeezes the trigger. Nothing happens. He keeps breathing and squeezes again, but still, nothing happens. The buck steps forward a few paces, searching out a new clump of plans beneath the fallen leaves. Daryl keeps trying to pull the damn trigger but nothing works. For a brief moment, he thinks it's the bow, there's a jam, something's wrong, but as he looks down at his hands, he sees them shaking. He couldn't even feel it, didn't even notice until he looked.

"The fuck?" he breathes.

The bow crashes down, startling the deer. It doesn't run far, resumes foraging several yards away in another clearing, but Daryl can't bring himself to care. He holds his hands in front of him and tries to curl them into fists. His fingers barely bend. They're still quivering. Daryl lets out a harsh, sudden breath, sucks another in quickly, feels like he can't get enough air, and finally, finally realizes he's sobbing. There are no tears, no wetness on his face, but his throat is closing up, his lips are curled into a desperate grimace, everything else about his body is following meltdown procedures.

"Fuck!" he shouts. The word rings out in the silent forest, probably loud enough to draw some fucking walkers, which means Daryl needs to get his ass in gear double-time. "Come on, you pussy. Come on," he mutters to himself. "Get the fuck up, man, come on."

He rubs his face a few times, almost pretending there are tears on his cheeks, before finally getting to his feet. The buck's long gone, but Daryl has enough squirrels to get them through the night, and it'll likely stick around this part of the woods where it's quiet, so Daryl can hunt it another time. He can't be out here right now. He needs to see his group, his family. He needs that peace of mind right now. He needs it like he needs air.

"I guess you're fuckin' due," Daryl says to himself as he stomps through the tall grass at the edge of the trees. "And fuckin' broken."

It's a problem for another time. He already feels better, heading back to the prison entrance. He just needs to reclaim his zen. Then he'll be fine.


End file.
